For an hour and three quarters, “B” battery’s guns had been thudding—steady fire—one round per gun per minute. For an hour and three quarters Cresswell and Charlie Henry had been walking from shelter to quivering shelter—asking always the same question—getting always a different reply.

“What’s your range, Sergeant.”

“Four seven hundred, sir—Four seven fifty, sir—Four eight hundred, sir.”

Sandiland, watch at wrist, firing-schedule in hand, stood at the mouth of the telephone-pit. Every five minutes he called across to his subalterns, “What are you at now?” referred their answers to the paper in his hand; ticked off the ranges.

There was no excitement at the battery; and, for the moment, no danger. Work proceeded automatically.

Right and left of the battery, in the valleys behind and even among the woods in front, other batteries were firing in the same orderly unhurried manner. The great voice of massed pieces rolled and echoed in continuous thunder to the observers in the sausage-balloons behind them, to the observers in the high-circling ’planes above. Only the makers of that thunder were deaf to it, isolated, cut off by the thudding of their own labours from all other sound. Steadfastly they worked—eye and hands, ears and mind concentrated on the leaping guns.

But Sandiland’s mind was not with his guns!

“Any news?” he called down into the telephone-pit.

“Message just coming through from Headquarters, sir”—a pause—“Have we heard from Mr. Jameson yet?”

“Tell them, No. And get on to Blenkinsop again.”

“Blenkinsop’s on, sir.” Sandiland stepped down into the pit—a square tin-roofed cave scooped from the soil; took the instrument from his telephonist. “Captain Sandiland speaking. Are they still barraging TrÔnes Wood?”

“Yes, sir. Firing’s very heavy. Five-nines, I think, sir.”

The battery-commander returned to his guns. What could have happened to Peter? Charrington, Liaison Officer on the right, had already reported twice; “B” battery’s signallers had overheard the messages repeated to Headquarters: “Infantry had gone over”: “Infantry were in Guillemont.”

Sandiland tried to put away apprehension. P.J. was no fool. P.J. knew that no message of his could affect the ordered barrage. P.J. would not risk a runner’s life till he had definite information. And yet, Sandiland was afraid. His conscience reproached him. He ought to have made P.J. report sick days ago. If anything happened to P.J.... Sandiland wrenched thought back to his guns.

One fifty three? Already, the figures on the range dials marked six thousand yards. In another few minutes, they would reach maximum. “Six one hundred, sir,” called Henry’s voice. “Six one fifty—six two hundred....”

Undoubtedly, something must have happened to P.J.!

“Six two fifty—six three hundred.” Still the guns lifted....

“Bombardier Finlayson on the ’phone, sir.” The battery commander dived to his telephone pit as a rabbit dives to its burrow, seized the instrument.

“Our infantry crossed the Ginchy road at 12:50”—Finlayson’s voice came so distinct over the wire that Sandiland could almost hear the pant in it—“and are pushing on. Patrols are going forward to Lousy Wood.”

Sandiland wrote down and checked back the message; said, “Call up the Adjutant on the other ’phone.” But the instrument at his ear went on.

“Is that Captain Sandiland speaking? This is Bombardier Finlayson, sir. Mr. Jameson was hit just after the infantry went over. I left him with Gunner Mucksweat and went on....”

“Mr. Purves speaking, sir.”

Sandiland said, “Wait, Bombardier,” grabbed the second telephone, repeated Finlayson’s first massage, (“Splendid,” murmured the voice of Purves) “and I want to speak to the Colonel.... Thanks.... Is that you, sir? ... Jameson’s been hit ... I don’t know, sir.... I’m to send out another F. O. O.... Very good, sir.”

The battery-commander handed back the instrument with a little gesture of disgust. Technically, of course, Revelsworth was right. They ought to send out another F. O. O. Still, it seemed unnecessary risk of a valuable life. Whom should he send? ... He spoke to Finlayson again. Finlayson had not seen Mr. Jameson since he was hit. Finlayson could not say if Mr. Jameson were alive or dead. Finlayson had obtained his information, come straight back with it. Finlayson, too, was in the right.... And the battery-commander thought: “Which is worse? To face danger oneself or send others into it? There’s the very devil of a barrage on TrÔnes Wood, and the sunk road will be hell. Cresswell’s got a wife and eight kids. Henry’s never been in a show before.”

Then he took a five-franc piece from his pocket; said “Heads Henry. Tails Cresswell”; and spun the coin in the air.